All's Fair in Love and War
by DivoTsvetche
Summary: It is dangerous, they say, to fall in love. Especially if the object of one's affections is someone so elegant, so charming, and so thoroughly devastating as Geneviève Bonnefoy. It is unfortunate, then, that Arthur Kirkland happens to enjoy straying on the side of danger. (Tumblr Request Oneshot, APH England/Nyo!France)


_**Anonymous asked:** Could you please write an EnglandxFem!France 1930s/40s AU where Franny is a famous movie star and Arthur is her chauffeur who is hopelessly in love with her, but she doesn't notice, and so he keeps trying to win her heart until she finally realizes how wonderful he is and falls in love him him too? (It doesn't have to be exactly like that, you can take any direction with the story you want) Thanks!_

_**_Warning:_**None  
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_Enjoy!_

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><p>It was quite horrible, but there was no way around it. Hurt him as it may, Arthur simply had to admit it: Paris was beautiful.<p>

The view from his fifth-floor window couldn't tell him otherwise, framing the lit up city simply perfectly in between its carved wood fingers. The most impressive part, perhaps, began at the bottom of the picture, lights painting every building gold, from the sumptuous Palais de Justice to even the lowliest of unnamed squares where he'd get away to drink, away from curious eyes – a necessity, at that point in his life. There was also somewhat of an organic quality to the city, and Arthur confessed that that was perhaps what he liked best about the place. Far be it in his nature to be easily amused by anything bright like a common magpie; no, really, it was the way that every single twinkling light moved every so often that inspired a begrudging admiration in the man. Take the small red flash that he noticed from the corner of his eye: that was probably a cyclist trying desperately to weave through the busy streets like a rake among very stubborn leaves. Or, he considered, the white light (tinted violet by a thinly-threaded curtain) that went on, and off, and on again in an apartment a little beyond his: it might be a newly-married couple, two fools in love, laying happily on their beds and turning off their night-lights to go to sleep, before deciding they would rather look at each other a little bit more, and flipping the switch on again.

Really, the life that all that artificial light gave rise to was no small feat to shrug at.

If, however, one's attention got bored of all the iridescence (or, alternatively, if one's eyes began to burn like Arthur's so often did, especially when he was as intoxicated with wine and spiced perfume as he was now), there was always the river Seine to look at. A much more peaceful image, the water was a deep, infinite black which seemed to swallow up whatever light the city threw at it. The only reflection it allowed was from the sky, polishing the water with its dark violet sheen, and occasionally carrying a few stars on the backs of lazy wavelets.

Arthur gave out a heavy breath, and with it went the last remnants of his cigarette.

He half-heartedly wished that he could fly out of that window like the smoke, and drift, and drift, until he was quite dissipated and unseen. But no, if he tried, he was well aware he'd only fall, along with the burnt-out stub he'd dropped onto the street below. But there were days, he thought to himself with a longing look towards well-lit Paris, when he felt the risk might be worth the effort.

Suddenly, a sultry voice broke through the thoughtful silence. "Arthur."

Ah, there. She finally spoke; it was about overdue. She'd gotten bored, a cat without her prey, and now she was calling him back towards her unsheathed claws.

The voice came again, this time more insistent. "_Arthur_."

He wondered what would happen if he didn't answer; would she simply stop calling, or would she pounce at him and send him tumbling out the window? He didn't quite want to find out.

Without moving, he replied, "Yes, Geneviève?"

"You seem lost there, _chéri_. What could be more interesting than me?"

With his usual brevity of action, Arthur shut the window and then turned around, his attention no longer transfixed by the landscape; after all, what was a city to a man when compared to an elegant woman?

The sight of her did not deceive him, and he had to adjust his position when his eyes first rested upon her, pushing his palms into the windowsill in the hope that he would not collapse; she was, as usual, beautiful and provocative. Sitting with her back bent over her knees on their (well, _her_) large bed, sheets covering her naked hips and a single suggestive leg, she was the image of utter satisfaction; the lit cigarette that was stuck between her lips, and whose orange glow revealed a thin smile and half-lidded eyes, confirmed that she was, indeed, quite happy with herself. And maybe, even, with him as well (although that was improbable; their relationship rarely took a turn from either blatant discontent, or discontent veiled under the guise of violent sex).

"I…" he began, before realising he'd quite forgotten the question and having to rack his brain to find it once again. "The city, my dear," the Englishman started up a second time when he had found his wits. "I'll concede that it is a very charming city; it may even outdo you."

"Is that so?" she answered, obviously amused.

A nod on his side. "Quite."

"Oh, that will never do then. I can't have you making me jealous of my birthplace. We will have to fix this."

"Nothing easier – simply tear the place down, and then my eyes will be reserved only for you."

Suddenly, the lazed smile that Geneviève had been sporting fell, and she blew a bitter gust of smoke. "Well, luckily for me, the Germans might do me the favour of doing just that. I guess that will save me the effort."

At the answer, the small room grew uncommonly silent, even the sounds of the city drowned out by the consuming gravity of her words. She had a point, Arthur supposed. They _were_ at war. Outside of the borders, soldiers were already running through fire, waiting for death to claim them. Children were already missing their fathers, women their husbands and sons. And yet here they were, minds and limbs entangled and occupied by nothing but each other. The nonsensical nature of their relationship – the kind which resembled covert warfare more so than love, which left them bloodied, bruised, and battered, and lusting for more, and which he himself would have reproached just a few years ago – was just another reason why he should have broken through the window glass, jumped down into the rose bushes below, and run as far from her as his bare feet would take him. The thought had already started to seem appealing: he could join in the war, and fight and cry and suffer. And in the end, he could die at the hands of a bullet or a bomb or anything else, knowing with full, stubborn certainty that his heart belonged to himself, and not to the God-awful woman who was calling from her nest of silken sheets.

Yes, the windowsill made quite the good argument.

And yet, as her cigarette brought her lips to light again – the same lips which just minutes ago were buried in his neck and crying out, "_Je t'aime, je t'aime!_" – Arthur felt his knees get weak once more, and the sound of machine guns and steel tanks drifted away as quickly as it had come to mind.

But before he had time to start on a new thought, Geneviève's voice once again captured his attention as she coaxingly called out for him. "Come to bed."

Silently, Arthur obeyed, although his readiness did not stem from a particularly docile nature; rather, he found her bed to be more welcoming than a cold window that seemed to constantly beckon him to jump out and run away. So, without argument, he languidly made his way back to her bed, and planted his lips where they would offend no one: on her cheek, and then her neck, and finally her narrow shoulders, which were now adorned with a series of fresh bite marks. She wouldn't be able to wear her favourite dress for a few days without revealing them now, and he was sure she would yell at him later for that. But for the moment, she didn't seem to mind, instead relishing in the attention she was getting (so very typical, too – although he supposed that would be normal for an actress). In this position, buried underneath her collection of sheets and comforters, forehead pushed up against her collarbone, and hands already searching for her delicate waist, Arthur's mind easily deviated from war fronts and broken windows and escapades with no shoes; it was so much simpler to focus on _her_. On the softness of her skin, or on the way her ribs would give out only the slightest bit when he pressed his fingers on them. Right now, her heartbeat might as well have been a symphony, lulling him to sleep with every rhythmic thump.

Yes, this was a vast improvement from the windowsill.

With a newly-formed grin idly making its way across his features, Arthur tightened his hold on Geneviève's body and buried his face in the crook between her breasts, with every intention to drift off to sleep with '_lub-dub_' as his accompaniment, before a series of seismic shakes suddenly woke him.

"What?"

"Your chin, Arthur, your chin!" Geneviève answered, voice punctuated by a flow of thoroughly unladylike giggles. "It's unshaven and— Ah, Dieu! It tickles!"

"Well, perhaps I should relocate it to somewhere less bothersome," he smiled wolfishly. "Tell me, how is it there on your neck? Any better?"

Her laugh rose in pitch, and she very nearly pushed him away, but failed to do so (probably because she knew they were none of them too keen to lose the other's warmth).

"_Pitié_, Arthur!"

"Oh come now, my dear," he gave maliciously, resting his lips along a particularly tense line on her neck. "You know full well I am merciless."

But, contrary to his words, he immediately removed to offending chin from her skin and lifted his head up onto a pillow, where he could watch Geneviève's hysterical open-mouth smile return to its usual reserved, teasing form.

"Indeed you are," she began when her laughs had subsided. "I cannot begin to count the number of times you'd nearly reduced me to tears with your cruelty." Her voice was back to its steady timbre by then, and the lightness with which she spoke betrayed that she had never shed a tear for him. "Especially your words; do you know, I have never before been as hurt by somebody calling me a devilish bitch before?"

"Is that so?"

"Mhm," she hummed, hand inconspicuously descending along his spine, making him shudder every time the cold metal of her rings brushed against his skin, whose temperature rose feverishly with every touch she deigned to give.

Abruptly, her fingers paused midway, stopping with the precision that only a sudden thought could provoke; and, not a second later, she spoke, voice uncharacteristically hesitant, "Do you remember the first time that we made love, Arthur?"

"Of course I do; I still get headaches from the way you pushed me into the wall," he chuckled. It had been long ago, though. They'd started sleeping together God-knows-when; Arthur's memory got hazy around the date, but if asked, he could recall the events as vividly as if they'd been yesterday. _He'd _been horribly drunk, and _she'd _been horribly drunk, and they'd ended up dancing sloppily with one another around her living room, bumping on the furniture and occasionally slipping on the hardwood floors, but it had been _wonderful_.

Geneviève playfully gave a slap to his shoulder, drawing him out of his reminiscing. "This coming from the man who, not even half an hour ago, was rivalling Bela Lugosi in what I could only suppose was vampirism?"

"The only blood-sucker here is you, my dear. I merely bite. But why did you ask about…?" This time, it was his turn to be hesitant; nothing good ever came out of on-off lovers reminiscing about their past times.

She replied slowly, carefully picking her words, "I was feeling nostalgic, that is all. You know, I almost felt that you loved me, then."

"You're turning into an awful sentimentalist, Geneviève," the Englishman snorted.

"You insult me, Arthur – I have always been one. Unlike you, I have managed to retain my ability to express emotion."

"If you insist," Arthur shrugged, pressing a kiss to her skin in the hopes that that might end that particular conversation. However, under the touch of his lips, her body grew stiff, and the man sighed in defeat; he couldn't escape that one, obviously.

So, with a groan and an arm invitingly open, Arthur sat himself up against the headboard and waited for his lover to settle herself beside him and light another cigarette before unenthusiastically resuming the conversation.

"Alright, my dear, what is it that ails you now?"

"Who said that anything was ailing me, my dear?" Her answer came back cold, with the last two words exceptionally frosty.

"Well, now, you've just admitted something is wrong – and don't even dare to object, I know you and you know that. Now tell me what it is, or I shall turn right back around and sleep."

Geneviève sighed tiredly and tried to dismiss the issue with a lithe flick of her wrist. "It's just a silly thing, you know…"

"Everything about love is silly, darling, that's the beauty of it."

"Very poetic for a man for a man who seems otherwise devoid of romantic sentiment," Geneviève grimaced drily as she spoke, retreating her pouting lips to her cigarette.

Arthur could feel a headache coming on; drama was not his forte. "Is this what this is about? My not being romantic enough or what have you?"

The only reply he was given was an indignant cloud of smoke rising up to his face and drawing a few choking coughs out of him before he had the chance to wave his hand and dissipate it. When the woman still refused to say a word, the Englishman groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, agony painted on his face. He didn't know why he humoured her when she was in such a volatile mood. But still, he went on, speech riddled with exasperation, "Oh honestly, Geneviève, don't act like such a child; if we're to have a talk, you need to give me your input. That's what conversation is: two people talking to each other, not just one prattling on as the other sulks."

Her silence persisted, and Arthur, in his own childish way, proceeded to do the same, angrily fixing his green gaze onto the window he had been at just minutes ago. He should have jumped and run when he had the chance, he knew that now. And yet, as he looked at the city on the other side of the glass, flaunting its shining lights without a trace of modesty, with its worn romantic architecture made to inspire even the most wretched of poets, an image of Geneviève's vivid dark features reflected in a glass and framed by black plastic, came to mind. She'd been beautiful then (although he'd never truly appreciate it until he'd see her laugh away from a camera), a black-and-white star whose name glittered in every cinema in France, and the sudden memory gave Arthur an idea.

Clearing his throat from his bitterness, Arthur began tentatively anew, "You know, Geneviève, there are days when I want to throttle you."

A scoff on her part. "Romeo, oh Romeo, what loving words from your mouth fall."

"I wasn't finished, so your cheek was utterly uncalled for. I'm getting to a point, so either allow me to continue or I'll return to my chamber and we can both brood in our own companies."

The only answer that he got was an angry huff, followed by another noxious cloud blown in his direction, but since she still hadn't moved her head from his chest – and he might have been imagining it, but he was sure he'd seen a glint of curiosity light up in those dark blue eyes of hers – he took it as a cue to continue.

"As I was saying, there are days when I want to throttle you. But that feeling goes away the minute that, while I'm driving you somewhere, I happen to catch a glimpse of you in the rear view mirror. And do you know why that is?" He paused, and his lover's pursed lips, which had entirely forgotten about the cigarette by then, was answer enough. So he went on, "Because it reminds me of when I first met you. Because the first time I saw you, it was in that glass, and that first time, I do believe I fell in love with you. It was what you call a _coup de foudre_."

By now, Geneviève's cigarette had fallen from memory, and she had finally condescended to shift her eyes up to Arthur's face.

"Of course," he added thoughtfully, "that soon changed after I learnt that you were the Devil incarnate, but to tell you the truth, I never could shake the feeling that some part of me still didn't care a whit about your demonic personality."

Finally, Geneviève spoke, and in her voice there was an evident glee. "Are you trying to tell me that I am pretty, M. Kirkland?"

"Please." He grabbed her neglected cigarette and took a shallow puff, ignoring her protests. "You are already painfully aware of that fact, so there's really no use in my telling you that. You are, however…" He trailed off, searching for the right word before he settled for: "Enchanting."

"And is that better?"

"Infinitely. If you were only pretty, it really wouldn't make up for your belligerence, nor for your temper. Being enchanting gives you the power of turning those traits into something that I have grown all too fond of."

He looked down as he took a moment to smoke, and was pleased to find a small girlish grin of delight on Geneviève's face, and without a trace of smugness, either. Really, Arthur would later think to himself as he'd brood over what would surely be a new argument, neither of them should have been as happy over that frankly dysfunctional statement; but that thought was reserved for later. At that moment, the only thing Arthur could manage to do was carelessly toss his (_her_) burnt out cigarette stub and bend down so that he might catch a taste of her cheery upturned lips.

And unlike the kisses they had shared that same night, or even days or weeks ago, that one was nothing but sweetness and gentle coaxing, and soft sighs which echoed through her awfully empty room. There was none of the usual violence, nor the veiled threats which lay beneath bared teeth; it was unmistakeably and unimaginably peaceful. Arthur even missed it when it finished.

They held each other near for a few moments after that, and from his position, Arthur had the chance to admire every single one of her features, from the high rounded cheeks, to the thin but oh-so capable lips, to her entrancing, wonderful eyes. He'd forgotten how much he loved staring into them on the evenings when they were both of them too tired to make love or war, and would instead settle for sitting side-by side as they read their separate tomes. And at that moment, her eyes, big, blue, exotic, and opulent, held such a tender look in them that (for the moment, at least) all the aggravation that Arthur had felt before melted away, and he leaned in to ghost a kiss over her cheek.

"I _do_ love you, Geneviève." His voice was low and almost at a whisper, as if he feared the words that he might let slip from his mouth. "God help me for saying this – because I know you'll use it against me some day – but I do, and always have. And you know that."

"Maybe," she shrugged nonchalantly. "But I do so like to hear you say it once in a while. That would be, I suppose, quite enough."

"Loving you is one thing, Geneviève; standing you is another one entirely," Arthur retorted with a playful grin forming against the skin of her neck. "And I, for one, think it is for the latter I should be lauded."

That last comment earned him an utterly indignant cry from his lover. "You are terrible! Is nothing good to last?"

"Bah, you are in denial."

Just as Arthur was about to burst out laughing, a warm hand rested on his jaw without warning and brought him out of the crook where he'd rested his head, so that he could see the laughing glint – which promised future evenings full of fights and wine and hurried, desperate kisses – return to the eyes of his lover, and whose grip on his jaw had transferred to his chin so that she might give it a scolding shake. "Snicker all you want, Arthur, but I know that you do love me. And…" Here she fondly ran her thumb over his bottom lip before leaning in herself to whisper, "_Moi aussi, je t'aime, mon bel amant._"

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><p><strong><em>AN: _**__This request came in a long, long time ago, unfortunately at a period of time when I just couldn't seem to write a sentence well, but I said that I'd write it if it killed me, and so I did! And hey look, I'm still alive, so that's definitely a plus too! ;) I should note, two things, however: i. I remember asking the anon which name they'd like me to use for nyo!France, but I couldn't for the life of me remember their answer, so I've used my usual. Hope that's alright! And ii. I've more of less stuck to the setting of the prompt, but the plot's er... Deviated, shall we say. I did try to go with 'hopelessly in love Arthur', though, so again, I hope that that's alright.__

__Also on my blog, miss-spirouille tumblr__


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